


Vacation, Interrupted

by Bunnywest



Series: Thighs Verse [8]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Biker Peter Hale, Established Relationship, Fandom Cares, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Peter is a good Alpha, Peter is a good husband, Stiles is stressed, Vacation plans, Werewolf Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25486879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: The plan was simple - go to Hawaii for a week, soak up the sun and the sand, drink some cocktails, and ride Peter's dick every chance he gets.Is that too much to ask for?Stiles doesn't think so.But it seems the universe has other plans, and they come in the shape of a packless wolf and the hunters who are threatening her.Stiles guesses there won't be any afternoon sexytimes today, after all.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Thighs Verse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1499069
Comments: 82
Kudos: 723
Collections: Fandom Cares





	Vacation, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goddess47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess47/gifts).



> This is for Goddess47 who won a fic in the Fandom Cares BLM auction. Their prompt was -  
> Something Steter or Stetopher with one dragging the other(s) on a much needed vacation and, of course, something goes wrong... it can be the vacation plans or they run into a big bad that needs taking care of or they (accidentally) rescue someone important from something... so it can be a case!fic or something fluffy, whatever works.
> 
> I set this in the Thighs 'verse and it's...in the ballpark? I hope you enjoy it!

Don’t get him wrong, Stiles is thrilled with his promotion. He earned it, and it gave him great satisfaction to replace Harris as the floor supervisor after the man got fired for workplace harassment of one of the girls, and the way Peter acted proud as fuck made him feel warm inside for _days_.

But Jesus Harold Christ, the paperwork.

Rosters. Leave requests. Performance management. Customer complaints. Assessments. Training new hires. It never seems to end. Stiles floundered at first while he tried to get a handle in it all, and even now a month later it feels like he’s scrambling to catch up.

There’s always a meeting or a deadline or a report due, and he doesn’t think he’s left on time for at least a week. He’s tired down to his bones, his brain thuds with the stress of it, and worst of all, he misses his husband.

No.

That’s not quite right.

He misses his _Sir_.

He’s been coming home later every night, and he’s so done with people by the day’s end that he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, shies away from Peter’s attention even though he needs it, sighs out, “Just – I can’t okay? I’m peopled out,” when Peter runs a hand down his arm or ruffles his hair, and Peter will arch a brow but give him his space, and Stiles will shower and eat and go to bed and huff into the pillow, unmoored and aching and desperate for affection but unable to ask because he just told Peter no, didn’t he, and it would be unfair to flip flop about what he wants.

They haven’t even been to the bar. Chris texted him to ask if everything’s okay a week or two back, and Stiles sent back a terse _promotion - been busy_ and didn’t bother to reply to Chris’s congratulatory text.

Stiles sighs and grabs his laptop bag. It’s already dark, past seven, and he’s not even close to done, so he guesses the expense report is coming home with him to look at after dinner. He’d sooner be on his knees sucking Sir’s cock and being told he’s a good boy, but unfortunately Stiles is almost certain the department head won’t accept “getting off with my sexy husband” as a reason for his work not being done.

He does need to leave, though. On that Peter had been clear – “I need you home by seven thirty, pet. No excuses.”

Stiles has no idea why Peter wants him home, he’s just happy to have a direction he can obey, so he’s promised he’ll be there. He texts Peter to tell him he’s on his way, and it sits under the string of texts he’s sent every night this week telling Peter he’ll be working late - Stiles never has broken that particular rule again, the one about letting Peter know where he is. He wouldn’t dare.

He gets back _Good boy._ _I’ll have dinner waiting xxx_

It makes him snort, conjuring up visions of Peter in a frilly apron and oven mitts, asking how his day was like some fifties housewife, but he also appreciates the hell out of it – he skipped lunch again, and he’s so hungry could chew the leg off a chair right now. He hopes Peter doesn’t ask if he’s eaten, because he gets all frowny and a tiny furrow appears between his brows when he thinks Stiles isn’t taking care of himself, and it’s so hard to explain than an extra half hour uninterrupted at his desk is worth the growling in his belly if it gets him over the line for the day.

He hesitates before leaving the office. Maybe if he stays here and puts in another hour…but no. Peter’s expecting him. That’s why he welcomes the instruction to be home at a certain time – otherwise the temptation to stay late will drag him in. Stiles knows himself, knows he needs help to stop from spiralling into a rabbit hole of nothing but work, and as much as he loves his new job, he loves his husband more.

Right then his phone pings.

_Get in the damn car, Stiles._

He snorts. See, this is why Peter’s perfect. He flicks back a quick **Yes Sir** , and shuts the door behind him.

* * *

****

Stiles gets two steps in the front door before there’s a firm hand on the back of his neck and he welcomes it tonight, is done with the distance between them. Apparently Peter feels the same because the hand guides him across the room to the couch, where his kneeling pillow is waiting. Peter applies a gentle downward pressure and Stiles drops to his knees gladly. Peter sits down and positions Stiles so his head is resting against Peter’s thigh, and then takes his hand from Stiles’s neck and instead runs his fingers through Stiles’s hair. Stiles lets out a tiny sigh - he’s missed this more than he realised. Peter’s fingers keep moving, stroking the nape of his neck, and Stiles can feel the tension in his chest easing, his brain quieting as it soaks up the assurance that Stiles isn’t in charge here, can finally relax.

His eyes close and he drifts in the comfort of the familiar touch, breathing out a soft, “Love you, Sir.”

“I love you too, pet. Now tell me, how long since you had a vacation?”

It takes Stiles a moment to parse the unexpected question. “Um…” he searches his memory, and finally comes up with, “We went away for our anniversary.”

“Hmmm. A three day weekend. And before that?”

Stiles tilts his head back and when he looks up Peter’s wearing a tiny smirk, though he can’t imagine why. “Our honeymoon?” he ventures.

“Our honeymoon,” Peter repeats, “so, two years next week.” He raises an eyebrow. “You deserve a break, pet. You’re tired and overworked.”

Stiles sits back on his haunches and tries to ignore the fact that he’d forgotten their anniversary is in five days’ time. “I wish, but I can’t. I’m snowed under.”

Peter puts a hand under Stiles’ chin and leans in for a soft kiss, before pulling back and ruffling his hair. “If only there was a way. If only your husband had spoken to your boss and had two weeks’ leave approved.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open. “You what?”

“I called your boss and sweet-talked him. The man’s a closet romantic. When I told him I was worried about you working so hard, that I missed you and for the good of our marriage I wanted to whisk you away, he practically melted. You’ll finish out the next two days, and then we’re flying to Hawaii.”

A tiny corner of Stiles’s brain asks if he shouldn’t be upset at Peter’s high-handedness, but it’s drowned out by the sheer volume of the rest of him internally cheering with relief and gratitude.

_Hawaii._

It’s somewhere he’s always wanted to go, and Peter knows it. He breaks into a grin. “How long are we going for?”

“A week.” Peter takes in his grin and his smirk widens. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

“And the other week?” Stiles asks, and hates himself for wondering if he can spend a few days catching up on paperwork.

“The other week you’ll be my good boy, naked and in my bed. I miss you, and I plan on reminding you of all the ways that you belong to me,” Peter growls, low and unbearably sexy and fuck paperwork, because that sounds perfect.

Stiles surges up from his knees and plants himself in Peter’s lap, tangling his hands in his husband’s hair and muttering, “How are you so fucking amazing?” before kissing him with a passion that’s been absent for weeks, ever since Stiles forgot what was important. Peter kisses him back just as enthusiastically, and Stiles is just getting into it when his stomach lets out an extremely unsexy growl.

Peter pulls back. “Skipped lunch again?”

“Um. I meant to take a break, but here wasn’t a good time.”

Peter’s mouth gets that pinched look and his forehead furrows. Stiles ducks his head. “Sorry, sir.”

Peter sighs, “You see why I’m stealing you away, pet? You’re neglecting yourself.” He stands with Stiles still wrapped around him and carries him to the kitchen. After all this time Peter’s superhuman strength still has the power to make Stiles weak at the knees. He thinks it probably always will. He buries his face in the crook of Peter’s neck and lets out an appreciative sound. Peter deposits him on the kitchen counter and crowds into the vee of his splayed legs, then trails a hand down the line of Stiles’s jaw before tugging at his choker to bring his head low enough that Peter can whisper in his ear, “I’m going to take care of you tonight in all the ways you need. First I’m going to feed you, and then I’m going to fuck you. Okay baby?”

Stiles nods vigorously. It sounds like heaven, honestly.

Peter takes the time to kiss him again, only pulling away when the oven timer beeps. Stiles lets out a tiny whine at the loss, but then his stomach growls again, louder this time, reminding him that it’s been a long time since his 6am toast. He hops off the counter while Peter plates up a gloriously rich smelling casserole. It’s accompanied by a loaf of warm, crusty bread, and Stiles’s mouth waters at the sight. Peter puts a plate in front of him and orders, “Eat. You’ll need your energy later.”

“essir,“ Stiles manages round his first mouthful. He’s still tired, but even the short time spent letting Peter take the reins has taken the edge off his anxiety and he’s able to enjoy his meal and the anticipation of what will come after. It’s been too long, and he wants to be touched and held and thoroughly _owned._

They eat in charged silence, Stiles’s anticipation ratcheting up by the minute, and once his plate’s empty Peter takes it away and brings back dessert ordering him sternly, “Eat.” Stiles wants to cry, because he doesn’t _want_ to eat, he wants to ride his husband’s dick, but Peter’s produced a decadent looking tiramisu, Stiles’s favorite, and Stiles knows it was made just for him.

It smells heavenly.

Fine. Maybe he can wait a _little_ while longer. Stiles digs his spoon in and then lets out a filthy groan at the first bite. “ _Fuck me,_ this is good.”

“Are those two separate sentences?” Peter asks with a wicked smirk, “because I’ve already told you I plan to do the first. You just need to be patient. Feed you, _then_ fuck you.” It’s then that Stiles realizes Peter’s playing hard to get, trying to make him beg.

Well. Two can play that game.

Stiles takes another bite. “I dunno. This dessert night be better than sex,” he teases.

Peter’s eyes narrow. “If you think that, it’s obviously been too long since I showed you what I’m capable of.”

”I mean I _think_ it was good, sleeping with you? I can’t remember,” Stiles says, tilting his head back to expose his neck and casually stretching his arms over his head so his shirt rides up and shows his belly. Peter lets out a low growl, whether at Stiles’s words or his display of skin, Stiles can’t be sure. He lowers his arms and then, holding Peter’s gaze, takes a spoonful of whipped cream and delicately laps at it with his tongue, kitten-like. “This is delicious,” he says, smirking. Then he runs a finger through the sauce and sucks it wetly off his fingertip, swallowing and making his throat work before pulling the finger from his mouth with a lewd pop.

Peter’s eyes flare red, and that’s the only warning Stiles gets before Peter’s dragging him from his chair, throwing him over his shoulder, and striding to the bedroom. Stiles grins the whole way.

* * *

  
It’s only later, after a rimjob that would make angels weep with its sheer beauty, and two truly excellent orgasms, that Stiles remembers his report. He groans and buries his face in Peter’s chest, as if he can hide from his responsibilities there. “Pet? What is it?” Peter asks softly.

Stiles sighs into his husband’s pecs. “I gotta-” he makes a flapping motion with his hand– “do the monthly expense report. I have to get up.”

He goes to sit up but Peter’s arm snakes around him like an iron bar. “No.”

Stiles squirms, but it’s hopeless. “Come on, I need to get it done,” he grumbles, even though he very much doesn’t want to get out of bed.

“No,” Peter repeats, his tone firmer. “It can wait till tomorrow.” He rolls them both over and plasters himself up Stiles’s back. “Besides, it’s the first. How can it possibly be due yet?”

Stiles gives in to the relentless warmth and comfort of Peter’s enforced hug. “It’s not,” he admits, “I was trying to get ahead.”

“Good. You can stay here,” Peter declares, and then his hands are moving, sliding down Stiles’ ribs and latching on at his waist, pulling him backwards against his hardening cock. “After all,” he murmurs into Stiles’s hairline, “I haven’t quite finished with you yet.”

* * *

Stiles does not get out of bed.

His report remains incomplete.

He regrets nothing.

* * *

Afterwards, they talk about his work-life balance. Stiles doesn’t shy away when Peter brings it up, his previous defensiveness washed away on a flood of feelgood hormones. Peter listens patiently as Stiles admits he’s worried he can’t do the job, is trying to prove to himself that he’s worthy of it, and in doing so making things harder than they need to be. Peter prods a little, asks the right questions, and Stiles comes to the realization that while he’s taken on a new role, he hasn’t let go of his old one, is still doing tasks that he should have handed off to his replacement.

He's frankly stunned that it took Peter pointing it out for him to notice, but once he does, Stiles wonders how he missed it.

“Tomorrow, my little overachiever,” Peter murmurs in his ear, “You go in there, you make a list, and you delegate.”

Stiles hums. Now that he’s thinking clearly, there are a dozen things he can name that he can hand off. “I will, Sir.”

“Good boy.” Peter curls around him tightly, one hand resting at the base of Stiles’s throat - possessive, comforting.

They fall asleep like that.

* * *

Stiles sleeps like the dead and wakes up feeling like a new man. Actually, scratch that – the man he has is pretty great, and he’s grateful again that Peter cares enough to make sure Stiles gets what he needs, even when Stiles isn’t sure exactly what that is. He yawns and stretches and scrunches up his nose when he sees that he’s still a mess from last night – by the time Peter had finished with him he’d barely been able to move let alone shower, reduced to a fucked-out mess of jellylegs and endorphins.

He heads to the bathroom, leaving Peter still asleep. He showers, dresses, makes coffee and breakfast, and only then does he wake Peter. After Peter’s spectacular efforts at taking Stiles apart last night, Stiles figures he deserves to sleep in.

He wakes Peter with breakfast in bed. “Morning, Sir.”

Peter’s eyes open and a pleased, lazy smile curls across his face when he spots the tray. “Good morning, pet.” He sits up and makes a grabby motion at the coffee mug, sighing happily when Stiles hands it over. They share the tray, and when Peter trails into the bathroom to get ready for work, he’s still smiling that pleased smile, making warmth and satisfaction bloom in Stiles’s gut, a feeling that his Sir is happy and all’s right in his world.

He’s missed it.

He really doesn’t want to go to work, but he perks up when he remembers that there are just two more days, and then he’s on vacation for two whole weeks. They’re going to Hawaii, and Stiles can just picture it. Sun and sand during the day, and sex at night.

Okay - probably sex during the day as well.

And then, a week at home reconnecting and relaxing, resetting his equilibrium and being reminded that his job’s not meant to be more important than his marriage. He knows that, honestly. He just kind of got caught up in it all. But Peter realized what Stiles didn’t - that he’s in desperate need of some time away - and he stepped in.

Stiles wonders idly exactly how that conversation with his boss went. He can imagine Peter turning up, all leather and tatts, his eyes wide and earnest as he charmed his way into what he wanted – Peter can be very convincing when he wants to.

Stiles can’t find it in himself to be annoyed – he’s still flying high from last night, loose and relaxed in a way he hasn’t been for weeks.

When Peter emerges from the bathroom Stiles takes a minute to watch him dress, because why the hell wouldn’t he? His husband is objectively gorgeous, even wearing a plain black tee, dark jeans, and scuffed work boots. Peter catches him watching. “See something you like pet?” he smirks.

“Everything,” Stiles replies, grinning back.

They share a kiss at the door before Stiles leaves, Peter hooking one finger in his choker and giving a gentle tug as he says, “Today you take a lunch break, and you leave on time. Are we clear?” It’s not a suggestion.

“Yessir,” Stiles breathes out, and is rewarded with another kiss, more heated this time, before Peter spins him round and propels him out the door with a light slap to his ass.

* * *

Stiles still has just as much to do as he did yesterday and the day before, but somehow, it’s less overwhelming - possibly because he knows his workload’s about to decrease. He spends the morning in his office making a list just like he promised, and then calling his juniors in and handing off those things he doesn’t have time for. It’s immensely satisfying, drawing a red line through tasks and knowing they’re no longer his concern.

What he didn’t expect was the willingness of his team to step up. The more he talks to them, the more he realizes that Peter’s right – he doesn’t have to steer the ship _and_ row. They’re happy to do their part. Stiles guesses he just didn’t want to be one of those bosses who doesn’t pull his weight, and he swerved too far in the other direction. But he thinks he has a handle on it, now.

He takes a lunch break and sends Peter a pic of his chicken Caesar salad with a message saying _Gotta get my body beach ready for Hawaii_

He gets back **Your body’s perfect, sweetheart** and grins like a fool all through lunch.

He leaves at five thirty on the dot.

He leaves the laptop behind.

* * *

“I’m just saying, 5 am is _early_ ,” Stiles grumbles. “Why couldn’t we fly later, sleep in?”

Peter’s unrepentant. “Get in the car, Stiles. You can sleep on the flight.”

Stiles huffs out a sigh and grabs his bag. They dropped Harley off with Chris last night so they didn’t have to stop on the way to the airport this morning, and it feels strange to start the day without dragging Harley’s three legged ass out for a walk, but it at least makes getting out the door this morning easier.

(The traitorous beast had immediately leaned up against Chris’s leg with a happy warbling sound and stayed there until Chris gave him chin scritches. Stiles doesn’t doubt the dog will be spoiled rotten while they’re away.)

Stiles had trouble settling last night, the excitement of the trip keeping him awake, until sometime around midnight Peter had slid under the covers, held him down and blown him till he’d seen stars, and then mumbled, “Now sleep, pet.”

He has the best husband.

Even if he does book stupidly early flights.

Once they’re in the air, Stiles does in fact nap. It’s a five hour flight, so he scrunches up the shitty little in flight pillow so his neck has at least some support, and closes his eyes, and when they open again it’s because they’re announcing their landing and Peter’s looking at him fondly and informing him he’s adorable when he snores.

“Don’t snore,” he says, even though his dry mouth tells him that’s a lie.

Peter just rolls his eyes and hands him a water bottle.

They make it through the airport in record time, and when Stiles steps out into the sunshine and catches his first glimpse of a palm tree he turns to Peter. “You have the best ideas,” he says, grinning.

“Of course I do, that’s why I’m in charge,” Peter says and leads Stiles to the taxi rank, shepherding him into a car and telling the driver “Royal Hawaiian, please.”

Stiles sucks in a breath, stunned. “You didn’t, really?” because he knows what that hotel costs, okay?

“I certainly did. You deserve the best, sweetheart.”

Stiles melts a little bit at that, and leans his head on Peter’s shoulder. “Have I told you I love you?”

“Every day, sweet boy. But I can stand to hear it one more time.” Peter ruffles a hand through Stiles’s hair, and Stiles hums happily. So far, his vacation’s off to an amazing start.

It’s a short ride to the hotel, barely ten minutes, and Stiles takes a second to appreciate the iconic pink façade of the building as they pull up. Peter, because he’s the best husband ever, has arranged for early check-in so they’re able to head straight up to their suite.

It’s gorgeous, decadent, with a separate sitting room and two bathrooms and a balcony that overlooks Waikiki, and Stiles beams as he steps onto said balcony, spreading his arms wide, closing his eyes and breathing in the sea air. It’s already searingly hot outside and he can feel beads of sweat forming at his temple and trickling down, but he doesn’t care. He’s in _Hawaii._

An arm wraps around his waist as Peter joins him. “Is it what you expected?”

“No,” Stiles says, still grinning. “It’s so much better.”

He tilts his head back and Peter nuzzles at his throat. “Shall we go to the beach?” Peter asks, “or shall we rest?”

“Define _rest._ Because I’m guessing you don’t mean sleeping.”

“Well, we’ll definitely be in bed,” Peter purrs, and decidedly doesn’t mention sleeping at all.

Stiles considers it. “Beach,” he decides, and doesn’t miss Peter’s pout. “It’s not as hot as it will get later, so we can go and swim, and then hide out in here during the middle of the day and have wild monkey sex.”

Peter hums. “Your idea has some merit, I’ll admit.” And then he tackles Stiles into bed anyway, saying, “But I like mine better.”

* * *

Stiles gets to go swimming. It’s just delayed by an hour. He really doesn’t mind.

They have wild monkey sex afterwards.

Again.

* * *

The second day of their vacation, the morning is spent at the beach and it’s nothing but blue skies and cool ocean waves and salt drying on sun-pinked skin. The afternoon is the pool bar and Stiles getting tipsy on overpriced cocktails, followed by him getting a spectacular, eyes-rolling-back-into-his-skull-it’s-so-good blowjob on their balcony.

And that evening, it’s him kneeling for his Sir and warming Peter’s cock while being told how good he is, what a precious pet.

It’s everything he could possibly want.

* * *

Day three dawns bright and clear and hot. The knot of tension that Stiles has been carrying between his shoulder blades for the last month has finally melted away to nothing, and Peter nods his agreement when Stiles suggests they go explore the local shopping precinct, because he can’t come to Hawaii and go home without at least one truly awful shirt for his dad and Scott.

They spend some time poking around in the various stores, and Stiles gets to enjoy seeing Peter in shorts. It’s a _good_ look, and Stiles kinda wants to lick Peter's calves. Mind you, that’s nothing new. He honestly thought the thrill of being married to such an attractive man would have worn off by now, or that he would have built up some sort of immunity, but no. It appears he’ll forever be weak for Peter - for his ink, his smirk, his muscles, his everything.

There are worse fates.

Besides, he’s pretty certain Peter’s weak for him as well, if his attentiveness is anything to go by.

Except, Peter’s not attentive right now, is he? No, he is not. Instead he’s standing there in the middle of the food court, head tilted, listening to something only he can hear and paying Stiles no mind at all. Stiles nudges him. “Peter?”

Peter holds up one finger – wait – and tips his head back, sniffing the air, and then his expression morphs into something that’s mix between determination and concern. Stiles knows that look – it’s Peter when his wolf has come to the fore.

Peter grabs Stiles by the hand and starts striding forward without explanation, and Stiles doesn’t bother to ask, he just follows. Whatever it is, Peter obviously thinks it’s urgent. Peter heads unerringly for a service exit and they end up in a back alley near a dumpster, and Stiles heart plummets when he sees the young woman on her knees, hands behind her head, tears streaming down her face from beta gold eyes, and hears her pleading, “No please, I swear I have a pack!”

The hunter who has a taser pointed at her snorts. “Really? Where is it, then? Cause we’ve been tracking you for days and it looks like you’re all alone. And a lone wolf is dangerous. Could go feral.” He pulls his gun out, points it.

And that’s when Peter steps forward, eyes blazing ruby red, and plants himself in front of her, arms folded over his chest. “Why are you attacking my beta?” he growls out around his fangs.

The woman’s mouth drops open. She’d be mid-twenties, Stiles guesses, with stylishly cut dark brown hair, tanned skin, manicured nails and the perfectly straight teeth that speak of childhood visits to the orthodontist. It’s at odds with the grubby jeans and long sleeved tee that she’s wearing though. Her clothing's not even remotely suited to the climate, and she has a small, scruffy backpack slung over one shoulder.

Stiles wonders what her deal is. He crouches down next to her and drops a reassuring hand to her shoulder because whatever her story is, he wants her to know he’s not letting her get shot in a back alley. She throws him a grateful look.

The hunter frowns, looks from Peter to Stiles to the woman and back to Peter, across at his companion, and then at the woman again, who chooses that moment to say, “I told you. I have a pack.” Her words are bold, and her tears have stopped, but Stiles can feel her quivering under his hand, can sense her heart beating rabbit-quick.

“Yeah?” The hunter says. “Prove it.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “What do you want her to do, tell you that her Alpha’s Peter Hale of the San Francisco Hale Pack? I can tell you that. This is my beta. She’s been away studying, and we arranged to meet here for some pack bonding.”

“What’s her name?” the companion demands.

Stiles can’t hear what she whispers, lips barely moving, but of course Peter can and without missing a beat he says, “Bethany. Beth James.”

Bethany stands and pulls out her driver’s license, showing it to the man. For the first time, a flicker of doubt appears. “Your address is LA,” he challenges.

“Of course it is,” Peter says, “I told you. Beth’s been studying. We’re looking forward to spending some time and then bringing her home with us.” He turns and flashes a dazzling smile at Bethany. “The whole pack’s missed you, sweetheart. Especially Derek.”

Bethany giggles. “How _is_ Derek?” she coos. “Still cute?” and hell, if Stiles didn’t know better he’d swear it was the real deal. He likes their new packmate, he decides - unless she turns out to be some sort of psychopath, in which case he’ll claim he knew it all along.

He gives himself a tiny shake and reminds himself she’s not _really_ their packmate – the act’s just so convincing that he forgot for a second, that’s all. Anyway, for now the important thing is to get her away from the hunters. Stiles wraps an arm around Beth’s shoulders and turns to the hunters, other hand outstretched. “Listen, dudes. I’m no werewolf, I’m human. And I’m telling you, this is legit. Peter’s my husband and Beth’s my packmate.”

There’s a silent exchange between the hunters. “You swear?”

“On my mother’s grave, and she’s been dead since I was eight.” Mentioning his dead parent always seems to stop people asking too many questions, he’s found.

The hunter lowers his gun, “Why the hell would you marry one of _them?_ ” he asks, face creased in confusion.

Stiles really shouldn’t, and he tells himself he shouldn’t, but he goes ahead and says it anyway. “Mainly because of his massive –“

“Stiles!” Peter barks out.

“- library! I was going to say library!” Stiles protests, and Beth snickers. The familiar bickering seems to sell the whole thing, and Peter wastes no time in herding them towards the door that leads back into the mall, not giving the hunters time to change their mind.

It’s only when they’re inside and securely tucked in a booth in the food court, Peter on one side and Beth and Stiles on the other, that he relaxes the tiniest amount, extends a hand and says briskly, “Peter Hale, pleased to meet you, now would you mind telling me what the _fuck_ is going on?”

Beth takes his hand and as soon as she does, she bursts into silent tears, body shaking.

Peter doesn’t pull back, just silently pushes the serviette dispenser in her direction and waits. Beth sniffles and sobs and wipes at her face, trying once or twice to speak and failing, and Stiles wants nothing more than to throw an arm around her and pull her close to his side, so he does. She leans into his touch and he makes nonsense soothing noises, and it doesn’t take Beth long to get herself under control. When she does, she rolls her shoulders and sits up straight, and, hand still clasping tightly at the balled up tissues, asks, “Why are your eyes red?”

Peter frowns. “I would have thought that was obvious. I’m the alpha.”

She stares blankly before admitting, “I don’t know what that is. But you’re like me, right?”

A horrible suspicion stirs in the back of Stiles’s mind. “Beth,” he asks quietly, “how long have you been a werewolf?”

“Um, I think three weeks? I’m not sure.”

“And what do you know about us?” Peter asks, voice soft and gentle, tender, and Stiles knows he’s thinking the same thing – this girl has no clue what’s going on.

Beth bites her lip. “What I got from movies and tv, some stuff on the internet, but I have no idea who those men were. What just happened? Why did they leave me alone when you came? Why do I need a pack?”

“You said you have a pack,” Peter points out.

“Well yeah, because they were pointing a gun at me, and I’m personally a big fan of not getting shot, so I told them what I thought they wanted to hear – but there's no pack.”

Peter turns to Stiles, and Stiles sees the little crease between Peter’s eyes and silently kisses his plans for a morning of shopping and an afternoon of sexytimes goodbye. “Let me guess, we’re heading back to the hotel?”

“We’re heading back to the hotel.” Peter gives a tiny rueful smile and asks Beth, “Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere, exactly,” she admits. “I knew someone was following me so I’ve been hopping from flight to flight and figuring it out when I get there. They followed me on the last flight and cornered me. I haven’t had time to find anywhere.”

 _That explains the clothes then,_ thinks Stiles.

Peter pulls out his phone and says, “I’ll book you a room at the hotel,” and then he’s dialing and talking to Cheryl at the front desk, and it’s only a matter of minutes before he hangs up with a smile. “All done.”

Bethany opens her mouth, closes it, hesitates, and finally opens it again and asks, “Why are you doing this for me?”

“Two reasons,” Peter says. “One, don’t think our hunter friends aren’t still watching us – they’ll want to be certain we’re telling the truth so we need to keep up appearances. And two? You do need a pack, sweetheart, or you _will_ go feral, and I’d like to talk about offering you a place in mine.” He glances up. “But since tweedledum and tweedledumber have arrived,” he says with nod at the hunters who are trying to be subtle as they scan the crowd and failing, “We should go.”

He stands and Stiles and Bethany follow his lead. Before they go anywhere though, Peter beckons Bethany closer, and brushes his hand across the curve of her jaw softly, scenting her. He keeps his hand there longer than Stiles thinks is strictly necessary, but then she leans into the touch unconsciously and lets out a tiny sound, something like relief, and Stiles is reminded that _she’s a new wolf_ for god’s sake, he has no reason to get jealous. Still, his hands stray to his choker and he takes comfort in the weight of the medallion in his hand.

Peter wraps an arm around both of their shoulders and steers them towards the exit, but then he pauses, looking Beth up and down in her denim. “No,” he decides, “it’s a hundred out there and you’ll melt, plus it looks suspicious,” and then he’s tugging them back towards the stores.

Stiles guesses they’re going shopping after all.

* * *

To her credit, Beth doesn’t question Peter’s decision, and she doesn’t dither when she shops either, so in under an hour she’s the proud owner of some summer clothing, some swimwear, a pair of flipflops, and an assortment of toiletries – in short, what someone would bring on vacation. Peter nods his satisfaction, arms folded over his chest, and then Stiles gets to admire the bulge of Peter’s biceps as he carries all the bags back to the hotel - the bags belonging to someone else, who’s now somehow part of their anniversary vacation.

Stiles stamps hard on the flare of resentment.

They’re saving Bethany’s life, he reminds himself sternly. Now’s not the time for petty jealousy.

He has to remind himself again though when they get back to the hotel and Peter checks Beth in, then brings her to their room so they can talk in peace. Stiles thinks longingly of the plans he’d had.

Beth keeps giving Peter these shy sideways glances, and Stiles notes the way her hand keeps darting towards Peter as if she wants to touch him. Stiles has never seen a werewolf act that way towards an alpha before, but then, he reminds himself, he’s never seen someone newly turned and packless, either.

He knows they’ll be here for a while and he’s getting hungry, so Stiles calls the service desk and orders lunch delivered to their room while Peter and Beth settle themselves on the couch. His back’s only turned for a minute, but somehow when he turns back around Beth’s plastered against Peter’s side and he’s stroking her hair.

Stiles’s face must betray him, because Peter catches his eye and gives him a look that clearly says ‘ _this is not what it looks like_ ’ and Stiles’s heartbeat, which had ratcheted up at the sight of his husband wrapped around another woman, starts to slow again. Peter gives an approving nod.

Beth takes one last deep breath and pulls back, face flushing. “I don’t know what came over me. I just – I needed to be near you. Sorry.” Not sorry enough to move away though, Stiles notices.

“Scenting,” Peter says, “and alpha contact. I’m guessing you haven’t had either?”

Beth shakes her head. “This whole thing’s a nightmare, honestly. I feel like I’m in a shitty Netflix series. “

Peter gives a wry smile. “It can be like that. Why don’t you tell us your story?”

Stiles sits on the other side of Peter and is immediately reassured by the way Peter leans over for a kiss without thinking twice, then settles a hand on the back on Stiles’s neck and gives a gentle squeeze, his way of telling Stiles everything’s fine. Stiles relaxes and gives Beth a reassuring nod. “Yeah, how did you even get bitten? And by who?”

Beth ducks her head. “Would you believe me if I said Tinder gone very, very wrong?”

Stiles can’t hold back the snort, and for a split second he’s worried he’s offended their guest, but she laughs right along with him. “Trust me, I know. Long story short, I arranged to meet a guy but he was a no-show, and then after I’d been hanging around this bar for half an hour another guy offered to buy me a drink, and he was seven shades of gorgeous, so we got talking and he asked if I liked things kinky, liked being manhandled maybe, and I said yes, because did I mention gorgeous? And a girl likes what she likes, you know?” She pauses, staring at them both as if expecting some kind of judgement, but Peter just shrugs and indicates for her to continue. “Anyway, we had a wild night, and I mean _wild._ This guy was strong, like crazy strong, and he was, well, you know. Werewolves.”

“Only too well,” Stiles says, “seeing as I married one.”

“Right. So, anyway, we’re having a great time, and then out of the blue he starts growling against my throat, was all _need to bite you_ , and I thought he just meant the sexy kind of biting so of course I said _do it_.”

Stiles, who’s intimately acquainted with exactly that scenario, nods his understanding, as does Peter.

The difference is, Peter always keeps his fangs to himself. Apparently that isn’t what happened with Beth. “The guy _bit_ \- bit me. I screamed, and when he pulled back, his face- his face was all - fangs, and ears, and hair –“

“We get it,” Stiles says gently.

Beth shakes her head as if to dislodge the memory. “Anyway, he freaked out, I freaked out, and he was dressed and gone while I was still busy crying and hoping I wasn’t gonna die.”

She pauses, scrubs the heel of her hand over her eyes. “I must have passed out from the shock, because when I woke up it was morning, and there was no mark on my neck, so I thought maybe I dreamt that last part, you know?”

Peter scowls, and Stiles just knows he’s fighting the urge to track the guy down and make him suffer. Honestly, Stiles is fighting the urge to help him. Giving the bite like that’s just not done, except this guy did it, and now Beth’s stuck with the consequences.

“So, when did you realize you were something more than human?” Peter asks.

 _More than human,_ Stiles thinks, hit with a wave of fondness for his husband and his carefully chosen wording. _Not less._

Beth clears her throat. “I knew something was off a few days later. Everything was too loud, I couldn’t concentrate, I was having strange dreams, and I woke up sleepwalking in the park. And then I was at home alone and the upstairs neighbour dropped something and scared me and I – “ she shrugs helplessly.

“You grew fangs and fur,” Peter says quietly, and tucks her up against his side. Beth nods wordlessly, burrowing into Peter’s touch and she looks so miserable Stiles can’t even resent the way her hands are splayed over Peter’s chest.

“I screamed so loud the neighbor came over and I had to talk to them through a crack in the door and say I saw a spider,” she confesses. “And then it took at least half an hour to figure out how to make the wolf parts go away and stay gone. The eyes still give me trouble sometimes.”

“Wait - you’ve learned to control your shift by yourself?” Peter asks.

“I mean, I kind of had to.”

Peter pulls back and cocks an eyebrow, obviously impressed, and Stiles can’t blame him.“That must have taken an extraordinary amount of self discipline,” Peter says, admiration clear.

Beth shrugs again. “I have iron clad control over my emotions. My job demands it.”

“Yeah? What do you do?” Stiles asks, intrigued.

“I work in high end bridal wear.”

Stiles’s eyes widen. “Ohhhh. So you get to deal with the –“

“Bridezillas, yes. And the parents who promised more than they can afford, and the mothers in law who have strong opinions, and the brides who turn up three weeks before the wedding and need a dress _right now_. I’m the epitome of poise and class.” Beth clears her throat and composes herself, and suddenly she’s the very image of a helpful, concerned saleperson. “I’m so sorry,” she coos, “I’m sure you’ll be able to sort the problem out with your bank, but we simply _can’t_ release your gown without payment.” She flutters her lashes.

Stiles doesn’t even _have_ a gown, yet he finds himself desperate to find a way to pay for it.

Peter lets out a low chuckle. “You do that all day, every day?”

“Yeah. Well, I did till strangers started stalking me and talking about packs and alphas and pointing guns. I really thought they were going to kill me, until you turned up.” She tilts her head and asks, “How did you know what was happening?”

“Werewolf hearing. I heard them threatening you. I sensed a wolf nearby, and I put two and two together,” Peter says, sounding ever so slightly smug.

There’s a knock at the door and Stiles goes to answer it, after checking through the peephole that it really is room service. By the time be comes back, Peter and Beth are talking animatedly, Beth still unconsciously leaning in close, and Stiles can tell at a glance that they’ve settled in for the long haul. Maybe he should leave them to it, go hit the pool or the beach. It’s not like they’ll miss him.

He puts the trays of food down on the table, and clears his throat. “I’m gonna head out, let you guys talk.”

Peter rolls his eyes and pats the couch next to him. “You’ll do no such thing. Sit down, have lunch, and give Beth the benefit of your experience.” His tone brooks no argument. Stiles tries to keep the grin off his face at the knowledge that Peter wants him here, secret werewolf business or not, and he sits obediently. Peter rewards him with a kiss to the cheek and a fond smile, the one that makes Stiles’s insides curl with pleasure.

“How long have you guys been together?” Beth asks, watching them.

“We’ve been married two years tomorrow,” Peter says.

Her eyes widen. “Oh, hell. Am I crashing your romantic getaway? I’m so sorry, I’ll leave. I can look after myself.”

Peter presses his lips together in a thin line. “Tell me why you think you’d be any safer out there than you were half an hour ago? Those hunters haven’t gone far, trust me. They tend to hang around.”

“Like herpes,” Stiles offers, in an effort to lighten the mood, because he can see a certain set to Beth’s jaw that suggests she’s about to try and argue with Peter, and that‘s not going to end well for any of them.

It works. Beth snickers, and the tension eases. “How about this?” Stiles suggests. “We eat while Peter runs you through werewolves for dummies, and afterwards we go down to the pool. We’ll be seen to be acting like a pack, and hopefully the hunters will leave us alone after that.”

Beth hums. “And if they don’t?”

“Oh in that case, Peter will break all their fingers,” Stiles says cheerfully, “or maybe shoot their kneecaps out.”

 _“That was one time!”_ Peter exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

Stiles laughs. “It was your wolf getting all growly and defensive over me and I still haven’t decided if it was terrifying or hot as fuck,” he says, and leans over and gives Peter a peck on the cheek.

Beth looks between him and Peter, brow creased, and says, “Sorry, but looking at the pair of you I have to ask. How did you two even meet?”

It’s Peter who answers, with a smile that’s all teeth and sex appeal. “It was a Grindr date gone very, very right.”

Beth laughs loudly, then wrinkles her nose and looks down at herself in distaste. She stands and says, “I stink. I might go and shower, if that’s okay?” looking to Peter as if for permission.

“Oh course,” he says. “You’re not a prisoner, Beth,” and he looks almost hurt as he says it.

She sighs. “It’s not that. It’s just -maybe it’s a wolf thing, but I don’t even know you and I feel like I want your approval.”

“He has that effect,” Stiles says drily, and Peter elbows him gently in the side.

“Go shower and change, we’ll be waiting,” Peter says, and Beth disappears to her own room.

Once she’s gone, Peter’s shoulders slump. Stiles leans against him and places a hand on Peter’s thigh, giving a gentle squeeze. Peter turns to Stiles, cupping his face in his hands and giving him a lingering kiss, and Stiles’s world rights itself a little with every brush of stubble against his skin, with the taste and feel of Peter’s mouth on his. 

They linger just for a moment and Peter runs a fingertip down the shell of his ear before cupping his chin with one hand. “Stiles,” he says quietly, an apology and a plea all in one. “I know we had plans,” he starts.

Stiles cuts him off. “It’s fine, Peter. You’re an alpha and Beth’s a baby wolf, and she’s got no one. Right now, she’s more important.”

“I’ll make it up to you, pet.” Peter promises.

For just a second there’s an echo of the past, of his dad dropping him off with Scott’s mom and saying the same thing when he got called into work on a holiday weekend or that one time there was an emergency on Stiles’s birthday, but Stiles shakes it off. He’s an adult, and this isn’t the same thing.

Stiles doesn’t expect Peter to turn his back on Beth for the sake of their vacation. That’s not who Peter is, and Stiles would probably judge him a little if he did, if he’s honest.

Some things are more important than blowjobs and beaches, and they both know it. 

So Stiles presses their foreheads together and teases, “She’s not rooming with us, right? Because I don’t share.”

That earns him a smirk. “Well I do seem to remember there was that one time…”

Stiles snorts, and the tension in his gut eases. “You loved that one time. And we might even do it again some someday. But otherwise? You’re all mine.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “Is that so, sweetheart?”

“Uh huh. And I’m yours. And next week when we’re home, you can remind me of it.”

Peter gives a wicked smile. “Can I use the cage?”

Stiles pretends to consider it, as if he’d even think of denying Peter his favorite thing after he literally saved someone’s life today. “You can use it for a day,” he concedes.

Peter’s grin widens and he specifies, “One _full_ day, pet.”

“One _full_ day, fiiiine,” Stiles groans, but it’s purely for show and they both know it.

“I do so love making you beg,” Peter purrs, and then he proceeds to kiss Stiles stupid until there’s a hesitant knock at the door.

Stiles gets up and lets Beth in. She looks much refreshed in a summery cotton dress. She’s pulled her hair into a ponytail and is wearing the flip flops they bought and carrying a towel, and Stiles can see the straps of her swimsuit peeking out of the shoulder of her dress.

He likes her, he decides. She comes prepared.

They settle around the dining table, and Stiles says, “So, let’s get this show on the road, so we can head down to the pool bar and I can ogle my husband wet and shirtless. Werewolves. What do you wanna know?”

* * *

The vacation’s not spoiled – not really.

It’s just not what they’d planned, and Stiles is all right with that, because yeah, he might not get to spend all day wrapped around his husband, but he does get to watch him in full alpha mode as he mentors their newest pack member, and it’s both fascinating and arousing, the way sheer power radiates off Peter when he takes charge.

Sure, Stiles gets the odd flare of jealousy when Peter scents Beth, running a hand across her shoulders or down her throat, and he’s downright irritable that first night when Peter hears her crying out in her sleep from a nightmare and shoots out of bed to comfort her, but that quickly dissolves when Peter comes back and plasters himself against Stiles’s side and refuses to let go.

He's still where Peter wants to be.

Beth’s a quick study. She really does have cast-iron control, and Peter teaches her the tricks to getting her flashing eyes under control. After three days of observing them, the hunters quietly leave town, apparently satisfied that Beth is part of a pack. Beth is quick to agree to come home with them – she has no real connections in LA and has wanted to leave for a while. Peter makes some calls and arranges somewhere for her to stay while she lines up some job interviews – with her skill set, it’s not hard.

The three of them spend the days at the beach or sightseeing, and it’s fun. It’s still Hawaii.

And the nights, well.

Once they’re alone, Peter, still feeling every inch the alpha, asserts his dominance, orders Stiles onto his hands and knees, fucks him deep and dirty, makes him beg.

Stiles kinda feels sorry for Beth, because the walls aren’t soundproof and she’s right next door and still adjusting to her enhanced hearing, and Stiles, well. Sometimes he begs _loud._

But she doesn’t say anything about the noise, and doesn’t even raise an eyebrow when Stiles forgets she’s there one time and calls Peter _Sir_. Stiles flushes and ducks his head but Beth just shrugs and says, “People like what they like, Stiles.”

But once Peter’s left the room, she turns to Stiles with a wicked grin and says, “I’ll bet he’s a _hell_ of a Sir.”

Stiles doesn’t reply - he suspects his blush does the talking for him – and they don’t mention it again.

And then the week’s over, and it’s time to go home.

* * *

The second week of Stiles’s vacation is spent under Peter’s thumb, obeying Peter's rules.

It’s perfect, even _with_ the stupid cage.

* * *

On the night before Stiles and Peter go back to work, he takes Peter out to dinner. He books a table somewhere nice and asks for a table that’s relatively private. “A proposal?” the lady taking the booking asks.

“Kind of,” Stiles says, because he can’t exactly tell her the truth.

He is going to ask Peter something, she has that right.

Watching Peter mentor Beth, teaching her what she needs to know, helping her find work and an apartment and integrating her into the pack, has awakened a need in Stiles, a hunger. He can’t help but imagine what it would be like to be truly, utterly, under Peter’s control - not as his husband, but as his beta.

He thinks about how it would feel to kneel and bare his throat to his alpha as a wolf, wonders how deep that submission would go. Down to the roots of his soul, probably. He desperately wants to find out.

And so, Stiles has finally made a decision.

Peter’s happy to go out for what he thinks is just one last dinner before the return to work, and its only when they’re tucked away at the private table out of view of the main room, the one that’s obviously for a certain kind of dinner, that he raises an eyebrow. “Special occasion, sweetheart?”

Stiles swallows, takes a nervous gulp of his water. “I wanted to talk about something.”  
Peter tilts his head, curious. It’s an animal trait most wolves have, Stiles has noticed. He wonders if he’ll start doing it too, after.

They’re interrupted by the server asking if they want drinks. Stiles shakes his head. Maybe he should have done this at home where they wouldn’t be disturbed, but when he proposed to Peter it was spur of the moment, in the shower after a threesome – this time, he wants to make it special. “Can you give us a few minutes?” he asks. The woman nods in understanding and silently disappears.

“Stiles?” Peter asks quietly. “Is everything all right, sweetheart?”

Stiles swallows again. When he imagined this, he saw himself confidently stating what he wanted and Peter swooning with happiness. Well, not swooning maybe, but definitely being thrilled. Except it turns out, it’s harder to get the words out in real life. He takes a deep breath. “Everything’s fine. But – it could be better.”

Peter gets that crease he gets between his eyebrows when he’s worried. “Is this because I’ve been spending time with Beth and the pack? Because it’s only temporary, I promise, just while she gets settled. It’s part of being an alpha -“

“I want that. I want you to be _my_ alpha,“ Stiles blurts out.

Peter’s mouth drops open.

“I want the bite,” Stiles says, and a sense of relief sweeps through him – there’s no backing out now, he’s asked.

Peter stands abruptly, rounds the table, and cups Stiles’s face in his hands, kissing him soundly before pulling back, eyes flashing red.

“Yes,” he growls out. _“Yes.”_

**Author's Note:**

> One more fandom cares fic to go - I've been slow getting these out because I got distracted writing an actual book with DiscontentedWinter! You can read about it here on my  
> [Tumblr](https://bunnywest.tumblr.com/post/622155271712768000/thisdiscontentedwinter-imprisoned-pickpocket)


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